


Two Birds | One Stone

by captnalbatr0ss



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 10:44:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7754620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captnalbatr0ss/pseuds/captnalbatr0ss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A combination of a fic request and sentence prompt from Tumblr.</p><p>—Could you be able to write a SamxRafe NSFW fic?? Like I got this idea Sam!Waiter founds Rafe in the crowd of invited people to this freakin fancy party and he just cannot control himself?</p><p>—“What was that? You don’t think you can cum again? I’m going to show you that you can.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Birds | One Stone

* * *

The music was too loud, Sam could feel the steady beat of the bass resonating in his body. It was dark in the room, a bit on the chilly side, and it was hard to make out specific faces in the veritable sea of people. 

Sam shifted the tray in his hand, bothered by the scratchy collar of his uniform. It didn’t fit quite right, but it had been the only one left—Sam spent a considerable amount of time searching through lockers to be sure. 

Unfortunately it would seem that the only waiter who hadn’t shown up for his shift had been just a bit smaller than Sam. His shoulders were too broad for the jacket, and it limited his movement, made him feel confined. 

Sam hated it.

_This had better pay off._

He spotted Nathan across the room, clearing a table, doing just enough work to not seem out of place. And, not much further away from Nathan, Harry Flynn.

The evening was really a matter of two birds, one stone—Sam had been put in contact with a wealthy collector and dealer of antiques, a meet had been arranged. This man—Sam had yet to learn his name—kept a busy schedule, hadn’t been willing to budge much on timing, and at first Sam had been put out when he thought of all the trouble he’d have to go to just to find a way in to the event. But, as Harry had been quick to point out, if the dealer fell through, the very artifact in question was rumored to be part of his private collection, rumored be there on the property, tucked away in some upstairs room. Sam already knew that if the occasion called for it, they would steal it, and a chance to scout the location would only up their odds of success. But aligning with someone heavy into collecting, and with deep pockets, that could prove to be worth the trouble.

Sam absently patted his left breast pocket. He couldn’t feel the scrap of paper, but he knew it was there—knew what it said, he’d read it enough times to memorize the damn thing.

 

> _You want my money. Show me what you can bring to the table._  
>  _I’m hosting a charity auction at the family estate next Thursday evening._  
>  _2256 Worthington Court_  
>  _Dinner is served at six. The auction will begin at seven._  
>  _This is not an invitation—how you get in is not my concern. Just get in, and don’t make a scene._  
>  _I will be in the billiard room at 7:30._  
>  _Find me there._  
>  _Do not be late. Do not waste my time._

And so, here they were.

Sam, posing as a waiter, playing his part well, knowing it allowed him access to the main level of the huge house. Nathan, a busboy for the night, could scope out the kitchen, and, with minimal sneaking around, the basement below it—it would be their point of entry if the meet was a bust, if they needed to break in later.

Harry, he was moral support, really. A third set of eyes and the best set of nimble fingers, and when Sam found out he was free the week of the auction, he’d asked him along. The lucky bastard was the most comfortable of the three of them—a late addition to the scouting party, he wasn’t a waiter, wasn’t a busboy—he was just Harry, a charmer, and good to have around as a distraction in case of emergency. And he could prove useful if they encountered anything that called for a quick pick.

Sam watched as Harry moved through the crowd with ease, staged an accidental collision with a certain busboy.

Sam’s eyes narrowed. He knew Harry was an insufferable flirt, but more and more he noticed Harry really turning on the charm around Nathan. And Sam wasn’t exactly pleased at his best friend’s advances on his little brother. 

He saw Harry angle his body intentionally to brush against Nathan’s, saw the hand that shot out as if in apology, the hand that lingered too long on Nathan’s shoulder. Keenly aware of his little brother’s body language, Sam didn’t need better lighting to know he’d be blushing. 

Sam pursed his lips, staring daggers at Harry. His jaw tightened as Harry leaned close, and whatever he whispered in Nathan’s ear flustered the younger man as he dutifully gathered empty glasses, caused him to tip one over.

“Sonofa—” Sam glared, took a step towards Harry, towards his brother, ready to push his way through the crowd and tell Harry to keep his hands to himself when a voice stopped him.

“I’ll take a red, thanks.”

For a moment, Sam forgot himself, had no idea what that could mean or why someone would say it to him. But he quickly rebounded. He relaxed his expression, turning to face the voice, lowering the tray.

“Very good, sir—” 

He stopped short, surprised at the figure standing in front of him.

A man, younger than many at the event. He looked to be around Nathan’s age—surely no more than 22—a bit paler, and definitely more uptight. Sam dropped his gaze to the floor, and worked his way up quickly, an attempt to be subtle as he gave the man a once-over. Black dress shoes, and definitely not cheap. Black slacks and a white dress coat—

_a white coat? How fucking pretentious—_

a silver watch, a black bow-tie. His hair, very dark, combed back. The suit was tailored perfectly, Sam noticed, and he felt that much more uncomfortable in his own ill-fitting outfit. 

The man was clean lines, and a lithesome cut. Slender, but athletic. Still a bit boyish in the face, but he had a strong jaw, but his mouth looked—

_goddamn delicious—_

soft. He wore a distant, aloof sort of smile. The kind that Sam should’ve found too stuck up to be appealing. And yet…

Sam wet his lips, drinking in the details of his features, particularly his eyes, which were sharp, calm, intelligent—a rich and striking blue that bordered a ring of brown around his pupils. Sam found them—

_intoxicating._

“Well?”

Sam blinked, tried to internally stamp out the heat churning low in his belly, but it was difficult with those eyes on him, with the smell of cologne winding him up—just enough, just enough.

“Excuse me?” Sam tried to look as congenial as possible.

The man raised both brows, and Sam watched as his eyes moved to the tray in Sam’s hand.

“A red. If it’s not too much trouble.” A hint of something teasing in his voice.

Sam suppressed a frown, wondering why the man didn’t just grab for the glass like everyone else had—looked, and realized that the only reds left were on the inside of the tray, nearer to Sam’s body, and blocked in by several glasses of white.

_Damn. Rookie mistake._

Sam smiled cordially, bowed a fraction, sure to be proper but not showy. With his free hand he spun the tray carefully on his palm until the last two glasses of red wine were within the man’s reach.

The man picked the glass nearest him, took the first drink with his eyes on Sam, and Sam was just sure he saw something there. Something playful, borderline flirtatious, but then the man raised his brows, lifted the glass slightly, a wordless gesture of thanks, and turned away.

Sam watched him disappear into the crowd, a lone spot of white in a sea of dark, rich color.

Sam couldn’t help but appreciate his lean frame—That body looked so damn  _fit_.

_A swimmer, maybe? Mm. I’d be glad to take a dip in those waters…_

Sam wet his lips again. Then he shook his head, turned his focus back to the task at hand. He made his way through the crowd, toward Harry. They wouldn’t have a lot of time to stand and chat, so Sam promised himself he’d try to save at least the bulk of his tirade re: Nathan for after the night was over.

Harry spotted him, met him halfway, pretending to debate over whether to choose a red or white wine. All of his facial features indicated as much—his voice was soft, and he spoke quickly.

“Nathan says he’s gonna take a crack at getting into the basement, that’s where he’s gone. You got an eye on the time, mate?”

Sam turned the tray slightly again, keeping up appearances.

“Yeah, plenty of time to get to the billiard room. I’m gonna slip out now, see what I can see in the meantime. You think you can stay put in here, wait for Nathan to get back?”

“Course I can, mate. I’ll wait for him with open arms.”

Sam raised a brow. “Ah, yeah, about that, Flynn—”

“I can think of a million reasons why this isn’t the time to bust my balls about teasing your brother, Sammy boy.”

“Yeah, but I—” But Harry was right, and Sam knew it. “Lookit, just keep your paws to yourself,  _mate_.”

“Fine, fine. Best get on with it, then. And don’t muck this up, all of it’ll be bloody smooth sailing if you can get in good with the toff.”

Harry settled on a glass of white wine, sipping it slowly as Sam picked his way across the floor, fixated on his way out. A quick peek, just a little look-see, and hopefully no surprises. 

Sam halted, startled when a familiar figure moved in front of him. Flashed that same haughty smile from earlier. A hand, reaching out to swap his empty glass for the last glass of red.

“You again.”

“Sir.”

“You don’t look like a typical waiter.” Glass stem between his fingers, one hand on his hip, the younger man regarded Sam skeptically. 

Sam’s smile nearly faltered. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“Oh, I certainly don’t believe  _that_.” The man stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Is that—smoke? That I smell?”

“Oh, ah—” Sam’s eyes darted left, right. 

“Well?”

“I—” Sam spotted Harry out of the corner of his eye, hoped his friend would rescue him. “Ah…”

“Jesus, it’s not a million dollar question.”

“Right, um…yeah. I smoke.”

“Got any on you, by chance? I’d kill for an excuse to step out for a minute. These things always go on much longer than is pleasant.”

Sam frowned, weighing his options. “Well, yeah, but…” Sam held up the tray, shrugging.

“Inconsequential.” He grabbed the tray, set it down on the nearest table. “Come on, follow me. Unless you’d rather give me your sticks and a lighter?”

Sam absently patted his pocket; he could’ve parted with the cigarettes, but he already knew he wasn’t willing to pass off his lighter to some rich asshole—knew he’d never see it again.

_Goddamnit, Harry. Some lookout you are._

Sam sighed. “Fine. But make it quick, I gotta—get back to work.”

“Right.”

Sam felt even more uncomfortable than before, first the ill-fitting suit, and now here he was, following close on this man’s heels, running off script, off plan. But when the man began to lead him out of the room through the very door Sam had been intending to get through, Sam perked up a little.

The man sighed as soon as the door shut behind them.

“Ah. That’s better.”

The music wasn’t so loud in the hallway, the lighting was better. Sam quickly took stock as they walked, paying close attention to his surroundings, to any detail that might prove important. Doors, windows, down to blind spots and potential hiding places. He noticed that all the windows looked stationary—like they’d only make suitable exits once broken. He noticed that the doors looked old, certainly older than the house was. Added for aesthetics. Maybe even with the original locks. He made a mental note to tell Harry.

He was so intent on memorizing the layout, the details, that when the younger man stopped in front of the balcony door, Sam bumped right into him.

“ _Shit_! Watch where you’re— Oh goddamnit.  _Perfect_. Just perfect.”

Sam’s eyes were wide, apologetic. “Oh fuck, I’m sorry—”

Sam untied his small apron—mostly for show, and damned annoying to wear—and reached out with it, instinctively attempting to wipe up the red wine spilled down the front of that stupid fucking white jacket.

“Jesus, would you stop? That’s not helping.”

Sam’s hand slowed, stilled, but remained on the smaller man’s chest, and Sam was watching his face, drawn in by those eyes.

The shorter man looked at him with a quiet curiosity that bordered on mild annoyance. He glanced down at Sam’s hand on his chest, then back to Sam’s face, raising a brow.

Sam found that his throat seemed tight, and—as he felt the strong, steady heartbeat beneath his fingers, and as he imagined the things he might do to make that heartbeat skip, trip, race—he realized—

_Shit. Shit shit shit—_

that his pants were feeling a bit tighter as well, and not just because they were a half size too small.

_Oh, come on, you idiot. What’s the matter with you?_

“Fuck it, never mind.” The man surprised Sam, throwing back the remnants of wine still in his glass in one swift swallow before tossing the glass aside.  
Sam jumped when the glass shattered. “What the fuck—”

“Unimportant.”

Sam stared at the broken glass, and splashes of wine, and he thought—

_What a fuckin’ asshole. Who does something like that?_

But then he was following again, reaching into his jacket for his cigarettes.

The man pulled the balcony doors open, stepped outside.

The air was cool, cooler than Sam was expecting. He noticed, as he looked over the railing, that they were on the back side of the house, and that the balcony was long—they’d come out on the right end, but it stretched the nearly the entire length of the house, and Sam counted at least three doors that had access to it directly.

“That’s better.”

Sam turned his attention to the small man in the pompous white coat.

“If you don’t like this kind of thing, why are you here?” Sam asked, plucking out a cigarette. 

When the man took it, his fingers momentarily brushed against Sam’s, and Sam was surprised by how warm they were.

“It’s necessary,” the man answered, taking the cigarette and tucking it between his lips. “Do you mind?”

Sam eyed those lips again, and the way the cigarette sat there, the slight wobble of it as he spoke. Sam imagined knocking that cigarette out of the way and claiming that mouth. He just knew it would taste divine.

He groaned inwardly, shifting, reaching into his pocket for his lighter and trying to use the moment to make some subtle adjustments.

When he pulled his lighter out, he ignited it, and the man leaned forward, waited for Sam to light the end of his cigarette before he closed his eyes, hollowed his cheeks, and inhaled.

Sam glanced at his watch as he lit his own cigarette, feeling antsy. He looked over his shoulder at the door, wondering if Nathan had made it back.

He let his eyes wander back to the man, now leaning on the railing easily, cigarette held loosely in the crook of his pointer and middle fingers. The angle of his body pulled the jacket tight across his shoulders, and Sam quickly took another drag just to keep from licking his lips.

_This is getting ridiculous. It’s just some spoiled rich asshole, probably here with his parents, what the fuck is wrong with you, Sam?_

“What’s your name?”

“Oh. Ah—” Sam hesitated, pursed his lips. “Sam. I’m Sam.”

“Sam. That’s very interesting.” The man considered it for a moment, then nodded. “It fits you.”

 _That’s not the only thing that’d fit me,_  Sam thought, and he bit the inside of his cheek even as he risked a glance at that tight ass.

“—dler.”

Sam blinked, fighting back the rush of color to his cheeks. “Sorry, I… I didn’t catch that, I, uh—”

“My name. It’s Rafe.” The younger man tilted his head, one brow lifting, amused.

“Oh. Shit. Sorry.” Sam rubbed the nape of his neck, dropping his gaze.   
Sam attempted to distract himself by lighting up as well, and for several moments, they smoked in silence.

“Well. This won’t do.”

Sam blinked, returning from his thoughts. “Huh? —Oh.”

Rafe was shrugging off the jacket, now stained with wine. “Goddamnit, you’ve really fucked me, just look at this.”

“—mm?” Sam replied a beat too late, his brain had hung up on—

_‘You’ve really fucked me.’_

_‘Fucked me’—_

_Fuck me, I really wanna fuck him._

Sam tapped off ash, frowned when he saw what the man was pointing at.

The wine had splashed onto his shirt as well.

Suddenly, Sam had an idea.

_Oh no._

_No, bad idea._

_Very very bad idea—_

“Lemme trade you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Let’s trade. Mine’s clean, and besides—if I have some wine on my shirt, it won’t even matter. Maybe I just got a little sloppy with the tray, right?”

Sam was already unbuttoning his jacket before he lost his nerve, shrugging it off and draping it on the railing.

“You’re serious.”

“As a heart attack,” Sam replied, unbuttoning his shirt as well. “This thing’s a little too small for me anyways, so hell, it might actually fit you.”

Rafe leaned against the wall, taking another deep drag as he watched Sam’s fingers move swiftly down until each button was undone, and his bare chest was exposed—the light dusting of hair across his pecs, and trailing down, disappearing beneath the waistband of his slacks.

Sam felt a rush of excitement when he looked up, caught Rafe eying him.

Overtly. Unapologetically.

_Oh fuck yes._

And—

_Sammy, you better be careful—_

And, once again—

_Oh, but—fuck. Yes._

“You, ah—need a little help there,” Sam took a step toward the smaller man, closed the gap between them, taking one last hit off his cigarette before dropping it, snuffing it out with the toe of his shoe. “—Rafe?” He tried the name out, found that he enjoyed the feel of it, the sound of it.

Rafe looked up at Sam, tucking his bottom lip in, between his teeth. “Oh, I suppose. If it’s not too much trouble.” He made a point to both sound and look impartial, lifting one shoulder in an almost imperceptible shrug.

“Mm. ’s no trouble. C’mere.” He took a step closer, unbuttoning Rafe’s shirt slowly, deliberately. The lower he got, the more he made sure to brush his fingertips against Rafe’s body, until finally he got to the end, had to gently tug Rafe’s shirttails up, out of his pants so he could get to the last button.

Rafe let out a soft sigh as Sam’s fingers met his skin low on his belly, traced all the way back up his chest until he reached Rafe’s shoulders, and pushed—pushed until the shirt slid off.

Sam rolled his shoulders, shrugging off his own shirt, shivering at the kiss of cold air against warm skin.

Sam took one more step forward, let his hands fall to Rafe’s hips and tug them forward, and when Rafe moaned it was over—Sam all but fell on him, descended on him, crushing his lips to Rafe’s and groaning when Rafe immediately met him with equal force.

Sam had been right—Rafe’s lips were soft. And his mouth. He tasted like cigarettes and expensive wine, like luxury and decadence. A delicacy. And oh, but Sam was hungry.

Rafe smothered his cigarette out against the wall, dropped it, his arms moving to wrap around Sam’s shoulders, pull him down closer as his head tipped back, as his mouth opened wider, inviting Sam in.

Sam’s fingers dug in to the warm skin of Rafe’s sides, his thumbs found Rafe’s hipbones through his slacks and traced circles around them, groaning as their hips drug across each other, a blissful torture.

Rafe gripped the back of Sam’s neck hard, his body pressed forward, eliminating any remaining space between them, and Sam responded by forcing Rafe back against the wall, hard. Pinning him there.

Rafe’s arms dropped to his sides just for a moment, and just long enough for Sam to lean back, grab each one by the wrist and lift them, holding them over Rafe’s head as he leaned down, marking Rafe’s soft throat with demanding nibbles, bites, aching at the sounds it coaxed from the younger man.

“Oh—shit.  _Shit_ , Sam—”

Between the taste of Rafe on his tongue and the scent of cologne that lingered in the night air, Sam was on fire. He slipped a hand between them, between Rafe’s legs, and his touch was anything but gentle as he teased Rafe through the smooth fabric of his slacks.

“F—Fuck—” 

Rafe’s eyelids fluttered, then closed, his mouth fell open and Sam found it again, eager for another taste.

Sam gasped, eyes opening—wide—when he felt Rafe’s teeth on his bottom lip, hard, rough. His pupils dilated, his core ached, and his hands found Rafe’s hips again, yanking him closer.

“Turn around.”

Rafe lifted a brow, and the corner of his mouth twitched up into a lazy, devilish half smile. “You gonna make me?”

“You got that right, asshole.” Sam pulled, pushed, did whatever he could to get Rafe’s back to him, shoving him against the wall again, his chest flush to Rafe’s back as he began to rock his hips forward against that pert ass.

Rafe let out a series of unintelligible curses as he pushed back against each thrust, and a soft cry as Sam’s hand slid forward, dipped past the waistband of his pants to find him, hard.

“Fuck, baby, that’s it—” Sam growled, letting his lips brush against Rafe’s ear as his long fingers stroked up the length of Rafe’s cock to his leaking head, coaxing another low whine from the younger man.

“You like that, huh? Mm, yeah you do. Shit, Rafe.”

Sam reluctantly removed his hand long enough to unfasten Rafe’s slacks, unzip them, then he tugged them down just enough to expose Rafe’s ass.

“Jesus—Look at you—”

Sam dropped to his knees almost without realizing it, one hand on either of Rafe’s cheeks, spreading him open and stealing a taste.

“Fuck! Sam!” Rafe’s body tensed, his legs quivered as Sam’s tongue found his hole, pressed insistently against it, and then he felt a finger there, working the tight ring, easing in.

“C’mon. That’s it—Mm. Baby, you taste like a million bucks— ” 

A second finger followed, sank in, and Sam began to slowly thrust them in and out, brought to life by the strangled moans Rafe tried to bury in the crook of his arm.

Then, above those soft sounds, Sam heard footsteps. Laughter.

And Rafe must’ve heard them too because suddenly he was reaching back, pushing Sam’s hand away, tugging his pants up and grabbing his shirt.

“Oh shit—” Sam’s heart was racing as he took a cue from Rafe, scrambling to gather up the rest of their discarded clothes.

Sam heard the footsteps, closer, and then watched as two shadows appeared, faint, just barely cast by the light shining past the figures through the french doors.

“Come with me—”

Sam felt Rafe slip a hand into his, and Sam held on tight as Rafe pulled him toward the far end of the balcony, glancing at the first door they passed, pausing at the second.

He grabbed for the handle, twisted—for a split second Sam thought it wouldn’t budge, that they’d be caught, and the whole evening would be a bust—

_Well, except for getting a taste of that high-class ass—_

But then he heard a click, and Rafe was pushing it open, and they more or less fell inside, tumbled to the floor, landed in a heap of tangled limbs, and shirts, and jackets.

“Whew, that was close—” Sam was saying, running a hand over his hair.

He took a brief moment to look around, they seemed to be in some sort of study, or maybe an office. Sam had just enough time to notice the table in the middle of the room, a few books stacked on one end, the bookshelves that lined two of the four walls, but then—

“Get your fingers back in me.” 

Rafe was laying back on the floor, rolling to his stomach, and Sam’s mind went blank.

Sam growled, crawling over Rafe, pressing his lips to Rafe’s nape as he tugged Rafe’s pants down again, and he slid a hand over one firm cheek, pushed between them, moved lower until he felt Rafe’s balls against his fingertips, then he pulled back. Slow, deliberate. When he found Rafe’s hole again, he thrust two fingers in, biting his lip as he felt Rafe push back against him, taking his fingers deeper.

“Yeah—oh,  _fuck_  yeah, Sam, c’mon.  _More_.”

Sam groaned, eyes darkening as he pulled out, added a third finger.

“Deeper. Right—mmmf—right— _there_! Shit!”

“Jesus, Rafe—”

Rafe’s eyes were rolling, and he reached back, feeling blindly for Sam. Sam leaned forward, grinning as Rafe gave up, tucked one arm under his forehead, and closed his eyes, his breath coming fast.

Sam angled his fingers again, buried deep and pressed hard and Rafe’s entire body tightened, fought against the urge to cry out.

“Enough—” he gasped, shifting, pushing Sam away long enough to roll over, stand up. “Take your pants off.”

Sam didn’t need to be told twice. He kicked off his shoes, made quick work of his his pants and boxers, eyeing Rafe while he did the same. Then they came together again, not a thread of fabric between them, a heated union of greedy hands and hungry mouths. Sam used his height to his advantage, backing Rafe against the nearest wall and slipping a leg between his, grinding against the younger man demandingly.

Rafe clawed at Sam’s back, and for a moment Sam thought he was leaning up for another kiss, but then Rafe slid his arms up, braced the backs of his upper arms against the tops of Sam’s shoulders, and pushed, lifted himself—

_fuck, he’s strong—_

wrapping his legs around Sam’s waist, to their mutual delight. Sam dropped his hands to Rafe’s ass, gripping him hard and pinning him to the wall again as he bucked his hips forward, shuddering at the breathy moans he brought out of Rafe.

“Sam—”

Sam dropped his head to Rafe’s shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Don’t you dare drop me.”

“—huh?”

Sam felt resistance, leaned back to watch Rafe brace his shoulders against the wall, counting on Sam’s weight pressed against him to hold him up as he spit into his palm, reached down and fisted Sam’s cock, hand pumping slowly.

“Ah! Oh—holy shit, Rafe—” Sam moaned, thighs quaking.

Rafe repeated the action, thoroughly coating Sam before he rose up again, locking eyes with Sam.

“What’re you waiting for?”

Sam searched Rafe’s eyes, just for a moment, and saw not one hint of hesitation there. And so he slid his arms around Rafe’s waist, held him tight as he took them both back to the floor.

Rafe kept his legs around Sam’s hips, and Sam adjusted just enough, steadied himself with a hand held low, just at the base of his cock, and he pressed against Rafe carefully.

“More. More, Sam—”

Sam found Rafe’s lips again, covered them with his own as he drove his cock in deep, swallowing Rafe’s strangled cry. He couldn’t believe the sounds Rafe was making, couldn’t explain how intensely he craved Rafe’s fingers and their vice-like grip against his shoulders. The obscene sound of skin beating steadily against skin, the slick heat between them as he pistoned his hips forward hard, again, and again, and again.

Sam wet his lips, mesmerized by the liquid movements of Rafe’s hips as they rose to meet his.

Each time he thought to slow down, draw things out, Rafe would paw at his back, his ass, and demand—

“More. Faster.”

And—

“Don’t stop.”

And so Sam eagerly complied, fucking Rafe relentlessly, and Rafe fisted himself, began to jerk off in time with Sam’s hips. Sam was certain he’d never been more turned on in is life.

“Sam! Fuck— _fuck_!”

“Oh Rafe. Rafe, you’re—” Sam grunted, his pace becoming erratic. “Holy shit, you’re incredible—Ah! I’m—I’m gonna—”

“Go on then,” Rafe growled. “Give it to me— Sam, I want it. I want all of it.”

“Goddamn, babe—”

Rafe arched his back, tightened his grip, and when Sam shifted his hips a fraction, he found that spot inside that made all else fall away. Rafe broke, ignited, exploded—a writhing, spasming wreck. And Sam watched as his—

_fucking unbelievable, gorgeous, goddamn mouthwatering—_

cock shot volley after volley of cum between them, and neither of them came away clean.

Rafe’s legs trembled, their grip on Sam’s hips faltered and as his thighs dropped open, Sam urged them along, managed to push that much deeper and all it took was a few more brutal thrusts before he came hard, filling up, spilling out.

He heard Rafe, still whimpering, and he lowered himself easily, resting on top of the smaller man.

“Christ. Holy Christ.”

He felt the stutter of Rafe’s chest as he chuckled.

“No, I mean it. That was—” Sam let out a grunt of effort as he pushed up again, and over, laying on his back next to Rafe on carpet so expensive it probably cost more than his entire apartment. “I’ve never—” But then he felt the heat rise to his face, and he trailed off, sheepish.

“Never what?”

Sam offered a small smile. “Heh. Uh, I…just…never had sex quite that…intense.”

Rafe’s eyes, Sam saw something in them flash, and then Rafe was moving toward him, laying half on top of him. “Mm. Is that so? What if I told you we aren’t finished yet.”

Sam blinked, then laughed. “Ah, I don’t know about you, but I’m ‘finished’ for at least half an hour…”

But Rafe wasn’t listening. He was trailing kisses down Sam’s chest, lingering near his nipples, and his hands were teasing Sam’s thighs.

“Hey—ah…mm…okay, not—not that that doesn’t feel nice, but, ah—”

Rafe was on his side, his body pressed against the length of one of Sam’s outstretched legs, and his hands were still roaming,  and one was easing Sam’s thighs apart. He avoided Sam’s cock, his balls, moved straight to—

“Hey! Hey, listen,” Sam tensed, his eyes widened as Rafe’s fingers dipped between Sam’s cheeks. “I, ah, don’t think—” He blinked rapidly, gasped. “I don’t think I can—”

Rafe glanced up at Sam, removing his fingers long enough to slip them in his own mouth, tonguing them lasciviously. “What was that? You don’t think you can cum again? I’m going to show you that you can.”

Sam opened his mouth again but the words died before he could speak because Rafe’s fingers were there again, and pressing forward. “Wait—wait! I haven’t—I’m not—”

Rafe planted a wet kiss to Sam’s hip, looking up again, finding Sam’s eyes.

“Sam.”

Sam held Rafe’s stare with wide eyes, but he waited.

“Trust me.”

For a moment Sam didn’t move, couldn’t move, but then he found himself slowly nodding, encouraged by Rafe’s steady gaze. “Okay. Okay, yeah.”

Rafe grinned, the tip of one finger slowly circling Sam.

“Rafe!—Rafe?”

Rafe paused again, raising a brow and waiting.

“Just—” Sam swallowed thickly. “Go slow?”

“Sam, you’re going to thank me when I’m through with you.”

_Oh shit—oh shit, what have I got myself into this time?_

Sam choked out a nervous laugh, followed up with a sharp inhale as Rafe increased the pressure, still circling, letting the tip of his finger sink in.

“Mm. God _damn_ , you’re tight.”

“ _Hah_ —ah! Ah, fuck—”

Rafe pressed his cheek against Sam’s hip, maintaining a slow and patient pace with his finger, his other hand moving to Sam’s abs, massaging there, reassuring.

“Jesus, Sam. Relax. Relax, I’m gonna take good care of you.”

But Sam’s eyes were shut tight, and he was anything but relaxed. His breath came quick, shallow, and his hands curled into fists.

“Sam.”

“Ahh…”

“Sam.” Rafe propped himself up on one elbow, watching Sam’s face. “Hey. Look at me.”

Sam opened his eyes, looked down at Rafe. The younger man was staring at him, his eyes were clouded with lust, and heavy-lidded, but steady, confident. Sam let those eyes pull him in, hold him steady, and when Rafe sunk his finger in deeper, Sam did his best to breathe.

Rafe pulled out almost completely, added a second finger to the first, and repeated the process, patiently, keeping his eyes trained on Sam’s until he had his pointer and middle finger buried deep.

“A’right—that’s…that’s—okay,” Sam moaned when Rafe hooked his fingers a little, probing intently. “Mm—R…Rafe…”

“Tell me when you feel it.”

“Feel what?”

Rafe laughed. “You’ll know.”

“I—oh—what the fuck, Rafe, oh  _fuck_!” Sam’s hips jerked up when Rafe’s fingers found their mark, and Sam’s heart skipped a beat.

Rafe wet his lips, watching Sam that much more closely. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s the spot. Come on, Sam. Come on.”

Rafe knew the way now, and each time he moved his fingers he made sure to stimulate that spot, and each time Sam lifted his hips, Rafe was that much more determined. 

“Rafe—Rafe, what—”

“You feel it?”

Sam did. A slow build, white hot, gathering at his core, boiling, rising, expanding. Unlike anything he’d known before.

“I feel—I feel—”

Rafe let his eyes roam, drinking in Sam’s body, and the way his muscles were starting to shake. Sam’s eyes were wide again, and glazed, a light sheen of sweat had risen up, and the closer he came to giving himself over the harder it was for him to keep his eyes open.

“Come on. Come on, Sam. Let go.”

Rafe slowed the speed of his fingers, but increased the depth a fraction, harder, and after a few more deep thrusts, he held his fingers there, found that spot and held his fingertips to it hard, his thumb finding that same area but on the outside, putting pressure there, too.

Sam’s body lifted to the sensation.

It was like a rush of heat born from his very center, and then it ruptured, rushing outward, and it rocked him to his core, set him in a giddy tailspin.

“Oh fuckfuckfuck—what the fuck—Rafe…R— _Rafe_!”

Rafe spread Sam’s legs wider, paying special attention to his balls as his fingers remained buried deep and gently probing Sam’s prostate as he rode out his second orgasm.

And when he came down again, he was breathless.

Rafe pulled away, felt Sam’s hand bump his arm insistently, and so he leaned down and pressed his lips to Sam’s again, sighing.

“Wow—”

Sam was useless, utterly limp on the floor.

“Oh wow—”

Rafe chuckled.

Sam felt him move, felt the absence of heat near him as Rafe stood, and he wanted to say something—anything—

_Where are you going?_

_Don’t go—_

_Never go—_

_Stay…_

But then he was drifting, falling.

Asleep.

* * *

Sam woke with a start, sitting bolt upright.

“Rafe?”

He rubbed his eyes, checked his watch.

“ _Shit_!”

He was up in a flash, scrambling to get dressed, it was already 8:15—45 minutes past time for him to be in the billiard room.

“Gotta be fuckin’ kidding me, you idiot, Sammy, seriously!”

He redressed in record time—socks, boxers, shoes, slacks, and Rafe’s shirt with its bold splash of wine. He used his faint reflection in the window to at least try and smooth back his hair.

He opened the door to the balcony, poked his head out, and when he saw that the coast was clear, he slipped out, headed back the way he came.

Once back inside, he searched his memory for the blueprints he and Nathan had studied, rushed to the billiard room.

“Please still be there, please still be there—”

He grabbed the handle, turned, pushed. The door opened easily, and Sam stepped inside, pressed the door shut behind him.

“Ah—hello?”

Silence.

“Shit.”

Sam rubbed a hand over his face, shaking his head. “Way to go, Sam. Blow the whole thing over some—”

_really fucking gorgeous—_

“—rich asshole.”

_I shoulda at least asked for his number…Damnit._

He wandered further into the room, running his fingers through his hair, really not looking forward to explaining to Nathan and Harry how he managed to miss the meet.

He made his way to the billiard table, leaned heavily on it.

“Shit.”

But something caught his eye—to his left, a small bar area. On the bar top, an envelope. And draped over the stool, a white jacket.

“Wait—”

A white jacket with a red stain.

Sam rushed over, grabbed the jacket, stared at it in disbelief. It was Rafe’s jacket, no question. Sam fingered the biggest splash of red, his heart thudding in his chest. He brought it to his face, inhaled deeply. The smallest hint of smoke, and that cologne—and something else that was just—

_Rafe._

He picked up the envelope, saw his name scrawled on the outside in the same bold, thick print as the note in his jacket pocket. 

“No way. No fuckin’ way.”

He turned it over, slid a finger under the flap, pulled out the note, and laughed. 

 

> _You’re not exactly what I was expecting._  
>  _You’re not all together unpleasant._  
>  _I’ll be in touch about the artifact._  
>  _You owe me a new jacket._  
>  _—Rafe_
> 
> _P.S. You got a free pass just this once—don’t be late again._  
>  _And for fucks sake, don’t you dare bite my neck next time. It’s soon to be too warm out for turtlenecks, and I abhor scarves._


End file.
